


The Prince that was Promised

by Anchanted_One



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Game of Thrones - Freeform, Gen, Inspired by A Song of Ice and Fire, inspired by Warcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-01-23 17:01:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21323608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anchanted_One/pseuds/Anchanted_One
Summary: A variant of how the Song of Ice And Fire might end.
Kudos: 15





	The Prince that was Promised

  


* * *

  


All was quiet at Castle Northmost, as it had been for tens of thousands of years. Standing so far North that heading out in any direction would mean going South, anyone living in the Castle would feel like this place was completely cut off from the rest of the world. The howling winds drowned out all sounds for miles, and thick snowfall made visibility so poor that you couldn’t see three feet in front of you even if there was light. 

However, there was no one living in Castle Northmost, and no one ever had or would. It had not been built with the living in mind. It was built by an ancient people long forgotten, whom the world only knew as “The Others”, or “White Walkers”, although few of them walked these icy halls and tunnels.

For centuries, the largest number of them had slept, as only two stood vigil at the door. But in recent years, more and more of them had awoken and left the Castle, leaving fewer behind every day. Today, the only White Walkers dwelling in the castle were the two doorwardens.

The pair stood staring straight ahead, just as they had for countless years without rest. It was their duty to wait, always to wait, for the next one to approach these walls. 

Their wait was about to come to an end. Out of the snow a man in thick black woolen clothes appeared. His face was almost completely covered to protect him from the cold, but the wardens didn’t need to see his face. They knew exactly who he was.

“Greetings Jon Snow,” they said in unison. “Welcome to Northmost.”

  


* * *

  


Jon Snow trudged wearily up the path, his bastard sword Longclaw in his hand. The blade had recently tasted blood, which had already begun to freeze. But Jon was too exhausted to care. He had traveled north as that White Walker had instructed—one of the few that could speak Westerosi. He had been helped along by his family’s Direwolves, who had pulled a sleigh through the snow, cutting his travelling time by weeks. They had ridden almost nonstop until they had met a fellow traveler along the road.

Euron Greyjoy, he had called himself. Jon barely remembered the man’s words, and only a few sentences like “I am here to claim Godhood!” and “We are alike, in a way, Jon Snow! Both alive despite being dead! And what is dead may never die…”

The fight against him had been vicious but short, and although Jon escaped without any injuries the exertion in this frozen land had tired him to his bones. 

He carried on wearily having set the Direwolves free and with only Ghost silently following him from a distance, only stopping stunned when a fortress of ice and snow seemed to materialize out of nowhere. It was unlike anything he had ever seen before—more alien to the world than even the Wall at which he had stood watch. The architecture was otherworldly and beautiful. The ice-and-snow walls reflected the scant light at different angles, appearing green in some places, blue in others, purple in some more. It was looking at a magnificent work of art, one which was never meant to be seen but by select few.

Jon didn’t know whether to consider himself lucky or not. Out of the haze he heard a greeting, clear even in this wind.

“Greetings Jon Snow. Welcome to Northmost.” 

White Walkers. They were the only ones with such crystal voices. Jon approached cautiously, and his weary eyes found two of them standing at the door. Their bodies were identical in every way he could see. Unlike the rest of their kind, they were neither armed nor armored. They entered the doors and beckoned that he follow.   
“You know who I am?”

They spoke in turns as they walked.    
“Indeed we do,”    
“You are Jon Snow—son of Stark, son of Targaryen.”    
“Ice and Fire.”    
“By right the King of Westeros,” “By blood a Skinchanger, Lord of all beasts,” “Heir to the title of Silent King.”    
“Alive after having died...”

“Well, on the one hand, yes, I suppose,” Jon said, struggling to keep up. “But all of those things just—happened to me. I’m just a man like any other.”

They stopped and turned to face him. Two pairs of bright blue eyes suddenly pinned him with an ancient, powerful stare, and Jon fought the urge to run.

“You are the Prince that was Promised.” They intoned—in unison again. “The Forever King.”

  


* * *

  


Jon struggled to understand. Sometimes the path to understanding was more slippery than the steep steps of ice he walked on.

_ You know nothing Jon Snow. _

“So—please help me understand this. For eight thousand years, you have been ruled by Starks of the Night’s Watch? These ‘Silent Kings’ have kept the full force of winter in check, aided by their kinsmen buried in the crypts at Winterfell.”

“Yes…” “good!” “You are beginning,” “to understand.”    
The pair were leading him up a winding stair around a spire at the heart of the castle.

“And there had to be a living Stark in Winterfell for that magic, that bestowal of power, to work.”

“Good,” One prompted. “Very good!” echoed the other Other.

“But why me? What’s so special about me? What was I ‘promised’ for?”

The pair continued to speak in turns.    
“When a new King takes the Mourning Throne—”   
“—he enters a state between life and death.”   
“A state where they begin to die.”   
“A state which cannot last forever.”   
“They rule a hundred years,”   
“Aided by their kin in Winterfell,”   
“—then they begin to crumble.”   
“To die.”   
“And another Stark must answer the call.”   
“To take the Throne.”   
“To be the Silent King.”   
“To protect the world.”   
“Until they die.”   
“They die by their oath.”   
“By  _ the _ Oath.”

Jon shivered. Unbidden the words came to his lips. “Night gathers, and now my watch begins. It shall not end until my death. I shall take no wife, hold no lands, father no children. I shall wear no crowns and win no glory. I shall live and die at my post. I am the sword in the darkness. I am the watcher on the walls. I am the fire that burns against the cold, the light that brings the dawn, the horn that wakes the sleepers, the shield that guards the realms of men. I pledge my life and honor to the Night’s Watch, for this night and all the nights to come.”

The pair grinned in response, a pair of dazzling smiles as terrifying as they were beautiful. 

“The Prince that was Promised is different.”    
“A Stark, like his predecessors,”    
“—but also the rightful king of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men,”    
“Even though you chose not to claim your heritage.”   
“Blood like yours has power.”   
“You who have died, yet returned to the living.”   
“When you take the Mournful Throne,”    
“You will not crumble.”    
“Your reign will be eternal. Undying.”   
“And the world will be safe.”   
“And we, the Children of the Cold Night, will know peace.”

Jon felt a chill that had nothing to do with the frost. He barked a laugh loud enough to carry despite the wind. “When you called me ‘The Prince that was Promised’ you really meant ‘the  _ Sacrifice _ that was promised.”

By way of answer, they pointed ahead.

Jon squinted hard, and he could just faintly make out the block of ice ahead of them. Panting hard, he approached what had to be the ‘Mournful Throne’, where the current King sat. He was frozen solid, and would have died long ago but for whatever magicks kept him bound. Jon took a closer look at his face and uttered a startled cry.

“Uncle Benjen!”

“Yes. He was brought before us not too long ago, but accepted the crown of his own free will once he understood. His reign began the day Brandon and Rickon Stark were driven out of Winterfell. And an eight thousand year long tradition was broken. There was no Stark in Winterfell. The Starks are bound by an ancient promise that binds them in life and in death. One child must take the Oath, and the Throne. The dead in the crypts are destined to aid the King. And the living must ensure that the old promise is kept. Your path was always destined to lead you here.”

Jon thought of all the times he had dreamed of the crypts beneath Winterfell, of the voices that whispered that he did not belong there.

“Once you take the throne, the old promise will be fulfilled. Your ancestors will know peace just as we will. Your Family would have fulfilled its millennia-long purpose.”

Jon staggered and fell on his knees as the weight of eighty centuries suddenly crashed down on his shoulders. His vision dimmed, and his breathing—already unsteady from the exertion and the cold—became even harder. Ripping the scarf off his mouth, he choked and coughed and sobbed for a moment. Then he covered his face with his gloved palms and willed himself to regain mastery over himself. 

He stood up and regarded the body of his uncle again. He was much as he remembered him. Jon even saw some of his old compassionate smile. He looked entirely dead, the only thing hinting the magic in his body was the eyes which glowed blue under the crown. The light was blinking. Fading.

“He will not last for much longer,”   
“A few more hours at best.”

Jon rounded on them. “When your kinsman told me to be here by one month ‘or else’, is this what he meant? That I had to be here before Uncle Benjen crumbled?”

“Yes.”    
“Without a Silent King,”    
“The Winter that threatens this world—”    
“—will be free to begin its onslaught in earnest.”   
“You think we were a dangerous foe?”   
“The true Winter is a force beyond our comprehension.”   
“And it has threatened this world all these centuries,”   
“Yet your family unerringly kept it at bay.”

The Stark Family words suddenly sounded so different to Jon. “Winter is Coming.”

“And now, its your turn.” The voice sent a jolt of lightning throughout Jon’s body. It was Benjen Stark’s. Jon stared at his uncle’s frozen face, and when the voice spoke again, he saw that although it was indeed Benjen who spoke, his mouth did not move.

“Come, Jon. There’s a good lad. Steel yourself. Take up your blade. Complete the circle. Release us all from this prison.”

Jon tried to pry the Crown off his Uncle’s brow, but he could not. It was frozen to his body. Taking a deep breath, he tried again, pulling with all of his strength. But to no avail.

“I’m sorry, Jon. For what you must now do. Know that no one blames you, least of all I. I love you, as I always have. As did Ned. As did Lyanna.”

Jon stepped back and nodded. Then, gritting his teeth, he raised Longclaw and in one fluid moment cut off his uncle’s head. The icicle that Benjen had become shattered and vanished, leaving only the crown rolling around at Jon’s feet. 

Jon picked it up and raised it to his head. Then—eyes closed and swallowing hard—he exhaled. He let go of his fears with his breath. In one swift motion, he sat on the throne and wore the crown. 

As he opened his eyes he finally understood the magnitude of the decision he had taken. The sacrifice he had made, the lives he had saved. That he would continue to protect for all eternity from the prison of his frozen body. 

As he felt everything begin to change, the doorwardens spoke one last time.   
“And so ends the Song of Ice and Fire.”   
“And so it begins, as well.”

He sensed rather than saw the blue pillar of light that rose up from his seat—unlike any that had before, or would again. The pillar hit a ceiling and a gentle blue wave cascaded out, a wave that engulfed the entire world. And as it passed overhead, wights crumbled back into thousands of dead piles, and White Walkers lifted their eyes to the sky with expressions of ecstatic wonder. They faded gently into the mists, never to be seen again, and all around them the living Northmen rejoiced.

Farther south, the phenomenon was noticed with great alarm but no one knew what it could possibly mean. 

His friends in the North would never know of Jon’s true heroic deed. And everyone else would never even know that he had saved them at all. 

“Is it worth it?”    
He looked around. Except he seemed to be somewhere else now. Outside his body, and in a world of soothing warm clouds and gentle white light. Figures watched him, surrounded him— scores of shades—including some he recognized. Ned Stark. Benjen. Robb. Lady Catelyn. Another woman who looked just like Arya… and just like him; a woman who could only be his mother Lyanna. Countless others. The one who had spoken had been Ygritte.

Jon grinned at her, at the others with her. He would never be among them, not truly. For he was bound to this world. But the more he thought about his fate the more peace he felt settle within his heart.

“Definitely.”

  


* * *

  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Many fans of both Game of Thrones and World of Warcraft have noted the similarities between the Night King's raising of Viserion and the cinematic trailer for 'Rise of the Lich King'. 
> 
> Recently, after Benioff and Weiss left the Star Wars universe (What a relief!) I started thinking about the series again. All of the ups and downs. And when I remembered the... incidental similarities between GoT and ASOIAF, I remembered another warcraft cinematic, an older one from Warcraft 3: The Frozen Throne—The ascension of the Lich King.
> 
> The idea was so enchanting that I had to write an "alternate ending" for Jon Snow and the White Walkers.
> 
> Now this is not to throw shade at Arya fans, or Dany fans. This is just a gratuitous little story written by a fan who was inspired by an idea.


End file.
